I’ve noticed that when black men launch an attack on black women it’s usually about hair. They complain about how black women don’t want men touching their hair; especially if they just got it done. What woman who just left the salon is going to want anyone to touch her hair? I don't know why anyone wants to; I’ve never had the desire to run my fingers through anyone’s hair (well maybe a baby’s hair). I don’t play with my own hair; it’s not all that serious it’s just hair.
How many times have I heard that black women should stay true to their culture and wear their hair natural or braided? These women have been brainwashed by American society into thinking that straight hair will somehow make them more acceptable to white Americans. If I go back to wearing an afro or braids will that make me more black and acceptable in the black community? Sounds like another form of brainwashing to me!
Men used to say the same things about women who wore pants. My mother told me that in her day women didn’t wear pants they wore dresses, and any woman caught wearing pants was considered to be fast, and not truly a “lady”. I remember when it was a big no-no to wear pants in church, a woman who wore pants in church was not considered a Christian. This still holds true for some denominations.
Have you been to church lately, it’s a rare occasion to see a woman with a dress on? I’ve never thought that permed or straightened hair will make me white any more than I thought that wearing pants would make me a hoe or keep me from being a Christian. I think that certain attitudes about how we carry ourselves will continue to change from generation to generation. Prior to the “Black Power” movement pressed or permed hair was just another hairstyle. When black men got their hair conked back in the day they were just trying to be smooth like Smokey Robinson and The Temptations
I had a crazy boyfriend many moons ago who truly loved my hair. If possible, I’d swear he’d scalp me and had sex with it. When we’d go out he would spend an inordinate amount of time talking about my hair. He warned me once he didn’t know what he’d do if I cut my hair. He said, "That a woman’s hair is her crown and glory, and she should never lift a razor to her head."
The more I dated this fool, the more I realized he was seriously in love with my hair. At that time, my hair was sort of long, probably around the middle of my back. I was tired of it and wanted a changed, so I decided to kill two birds with one pair of scissors. I cut the top part of my hair to about 2 inches, and back just below my ears. My boyfriend dropped me with a quickness, and all I could say was good riddance. Some women thought I was crazy for cutting my hair, to me hair is just hair, and it will grow back eventually. I have to say I haven’t let my hair get that long again I don’t need any more crazies in my life.
So is there a point to my diatribe? To the women out there, especially Black women don’t let anyone especially men determine for you what you should be; Black men can’t tell us how to be women and more than we can tell them how to be men.
Nicknames
What’s in a name? Some parents go through a lot of struggles deciding what to name their children. Some people name their children after their parents, siblings, or a favorite aunt or uncle. My mother gave birth to me when she was 39 years old, and to make matters worse I was a breach baby. My sister Fern says that’s why I’ve been ass backwards my whole life. From what I can glean from past conversations with my mother, bringing me into this world was no pleasure trip. My mother told me she was looking for initials that would spell SOS because she felt that she was in constant need of help. Ha ha mother’s got jokes!
When I was a child, I hated my name it seemed so plain and unimaginative, so I used to change my name on a daily basis. My mother indulged me to a point, some days my name would be Linda, Crystal, Lilac, for some reason I particularly liked the name Barbara. Not only did I change my name, but I changed the name of my siblings too. I don’t call anyone in my family by their given name, for better or worse I’ve dubbed them with nicknames that have stuck throughout the years
Think about this, out of your friends, family, and co-workers how many people do you actually call by their “real” name. I have a habit of shortening names; if your name is more than two syllables, I automatically shorten your name, unless you instruct me otherwise. My nephew Dalamar goes by several names; “D”, Daly Bear, Dollar Bill, Marmar, and the most popular, Daly. I love calling people by their first initial for some reason that sounds cool to me, but of course it doesn’t work for all letters. Letters like D, G, T, and Q are all fresh nicknames; however, S, M, and F don’t quite have the same ring to them. I answer to several nicknames as well; Step, Steph, and family members call me Stess or Stessy. I do not ever respond to Steffie it reminds me of those stupid Valley Girl names like Buffy, Pebbles, etc.
Now I also have the tendency to bestow nicknames on my co-workers, this allows me the freedom to talk about these people without their knowledge. I’ve worked with Dracula, Simple, Booger B, Nasty Ned, Big Pussy, Anorexic Dog, Stalker, Snow, Mad Hatter, The Borg, Killer Clown, and the list of names goes on. It seems childish I know, but I use whatever it takes to make the work place more palatable.
The trouble with nicknames is that oftentimes you forget the person's real name. I went to school with a person whose nickname is “Smiley”, I saw her at the store and said hi to her, and she got all bent out of shape because I called her Smiley. She said she prefers to be called by her real name now! Unfortunately for me I couldn’t remember what her name was; she’s been Smiley for 30+ years, judging by the look on her face, I think I’ll start calling her "Depressed" instead. On numerous occasions, I've seen someone at the store, party, family reunion, or a funeral and couldn’t recall that person’s name? I know that Nook-nook, Peanut, Tica, and Stink are probably not great grown up names; come on people, how bad can it be to have someone call you by a name you used to answer to? It certainly shouldn’t be the cause of a lot of drama in the grocery store.
Another side of the nickname dilemma is when you don't know that someone has passed away because you only know that person by his or her nickname. When my father passed away, we put his most popular nickname in the obituary; not many people knew him as Louis. Take the time to learn the full names of the people in your life; it may keep you from missing momentous celebrations like weddings, baby showers, and anniversaries. It may also keep you from attending a funeral of someone important in your life.
Old Friend
This weekend I saw someone I hadn’t seen since grade school. She was in my first grade class at Monmouth Park. It wasn’t a joyous occasion but a sad one. I was coming from the bakery downtown when I passed some homeless people on the street. There amongst the homeless was not necessarily a childhood friend but someone from my childhood.
I stopped my vehicle rolled down my window and called to her, she turned and walked away to avoid me. Was she ashamed of her situation in life or did she think I would find gladness in her predicament? I didn’t pursue her, but I thought back to my first grade class. Would her life have been different if someone besides my teacher cared about her?
I remember all of my grade school teachers: Kindergarten, Mrs. Elma Carter; 1st grade, Mrs. Elledge; 2nd grade, Diane Morgan; 3rd grade, Jewell Gaye; 4th grade Mrs. Wilkes and Mrs. McCracken, Mrs. Wilkes’ husband job transferred him to an office in another state; 5th grade, Miss Ella Blakeney; 6th grade, Mrs. Kulhman. An undeniable trend about my grade school teachers is they all cared about educating their students. Of course, this was prior to busing, and mostly everyone during this era attended a neighborhood school. All of the before mentioned teachers would think nothing of calling your parents and keeping you after school for punishment or lending a helping hand.
The before mentioned childhood friend was pulled out of my first grade class and put into DRC. To this day I don’t understand the acronym, but the kids who were place in this class were seen as dummies that couldn’t function in a regular class. I believe the teachers saw these children as disposable they couldn’t help. How
would Jackie’s life have been different if her mother had cared more about her than drinking and partying? What if she had given up her partying, helped with her schoolwork, and met with teachers to ensure that her child was keeping up in school?
My own mother had some strict rules about school. She expected her children to do their best in school. Never embarrass her by acting a fool. God help you if she had to take off work and come up to school. Those were some rules I had to live with, and of course when my parents were at work, General Fern, my older sister held down the fort. As a child, I resented all the rules, regulations, and the household chores; I wanted to run the streets like my friend and her siblings who had no responsibilities at home. As an adult, I realize that my parents, especially my mother was taking care of business, the business of raising her children.
I resented my mother from time to time with her strict rules and what I deemed as harsh punishments. I always knew that my mother loved me; she loved me enough to put me first. If it had not been for the grace of God, I could have easily been just like my homeless childhood friend wondering how I ended up on the streets. There’s nothing I can do to help Jackie, but I can help all the future Jackie’s that live in my neighborhood that go to my church, who are friends with my nephew. I can let them know that someone does care, miracles actually happen, and dreams do come true.
Please, No More Lessons
Sometimes I can unquestionably be a cynical person, okay most of the time I’m a cynical person. Don’t get me wrong, I go through days, even weeks of momentum where positive energy is flowing. Like any emotion or feeling it reaches its peak and is usually replaced with cynicism. I never felt it necessary to fake an emotion I didn’t feel because frankly I’m just not that talented of an actress.
When my family or friends are experiencing a wonderful life-changing event, I’m truly happy for them and wish the well. When they’re going through a rough time, I don’t feel obligated to tell them how much worse off they could be; instead I offer hope that things will get better.
There’s nothing I dislike more than phony positive people who want to teach me a lesson in positive thinking. The people I’m speaking of usually see themselves as pillars of the community who often fall short from the pedestals in which they place themselves. I’m sure you’ve come across these people, probably on a daily basis.
Years ago someone tried to steal my van; I had a security key in my van that prevented it from being stolen. One thing the key didn’t do is keep my window from being smashed or my steering column from being broken. Granted I only had to pay my deductible, but at the time my insurance policy didn’t cover rental cars, so I had to take the bus. I absolutely hate taking the bus; I’ve taken the bus for most of my life to school, church, piano lessons, and just about everywhere. There is nothing great about waiting for a late bus in below freezing temperatures or waiting for the next bus because your bus was too early.
I was on the phone in my cube bitching to my sister about how awful my life was going to be until I got my van back. In addition to my full-time job, I also had a part-time job and getting to both jobs on time was like running an obstacle course. One of my presumptuous co-workers was standing outside my cube while I was talking to my sister, and when my call ended he took it upon himself to tell me that my situation could be worse, I could be in Bosnia.
Telling a person who’s going through a bad situation that his or her problems don’t matter, and the situation could be worse is tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull. I basically told my co-worker to get out of my cube or something worse than being in Bosnia was going to happen to him. Afterwards, anytime this co-worker complained I told him repeatedly that it could be worse he could be in Bosnia. He stopped speaking to me for two months I guess something positive did come from that lesson.
When I was eleven, I attended a birthday party and ended up riding the birthday boy’s bike. Unfortunately for me I rode down a hill and lost control of the bike and fell face first into the street. I skinned more than half of my face. I had bruises on my chin, and my lips were two sizes bigger than normal. In essence, I looked like an accident victim who should have been at home recovering.
A sanctimonious member from my church told me that the few scratches on my face would fade away in no time. She could have stopped there, but she went on to say that, in comparison to Jesus suffering on the cross, my injuries were inconsequential. What type of monster says that to a child? I don’t know of anyone who suffered more than Jesus Christ! I didn’t tell my mother what this woman said because sometimes she gave us a ride home and listening to her nasty comments were better than catching the bus. I thought to myself that I knew why her husband left her she was one evil witch. My mother claims that the lady’s husband died; I don’t care what my mother says that man didn’t die, once he realize what he married he just up and left never to return.
Pointing out to a person just how much worse his or her life or a situation could be isn’t uplifting and quite frankly if that’s all you have to offer shut the hell up. All this does is stoke the fires of resentment; not being the world’s most positive person I’m more apt to see the downside of a situation first before I can see the upside. However when it concerns my family and friends I’m going to offer encouragement and a hug. It’s so much better than a fake smile and a knife.
Practical Joker
I have no trouble admitting this, but I was a spoiled brat growing up as the youngest of ten children. For the most part, I was indulged by my parents and my siblings. When I was in Headstart my teacher wanted to have me tested, she thought that I was a genius or at least gifted. My mother gave my Headstart teacher a dose of reality. She stated that I wasn’t a genius; I was probably more exposed than the other children were because of my older siblings. Thanks for the reality check Mom; you could have considered for one moment that I was a genius before dousing my teacher with a cold bucket of water.
My mother wasn’t kidding, as a child I was exposed to a lot, and for the most part most of my experiences have been positive. My oldest brother is old enough to be my dad and sometimes my siblings closer to his age found it tiring being saddled with such a young child. My siblings were both my playmates and my disciplinarians, but they also used me as a tool to perform practical jokes on each other. I got a taste for playing practical jokes; putting salt in my siblings’ oatmeal, adding sugar to the mash potatoes, dumping pepper into my sister’s Noxzema and letting someone else take the blame. My brothers were clothes whores, and it gave me pleasure to hide their socks and ties and watch my brothers tear around the house looking for them.
I was a practical joker clear up to my first year in college. I decided to play a joke on the Documents Librarian; he had this old beat-up jacket that he wore all the time. I took his jacket and hid it while he was in a meeting. As the day wore on, I forgot about the jacket and went on with my office duties.
The Documents Librarian found me back and stacks as I was shelving books wanting to know if I’d seen his jacket. He had a frantic look about him, and I was afraid to tell him that I had his jacket. He taught class and had already walked across the campus back to the classroom looking for his jacket. I finally worked up the nerve to tell him that I took his jacket. Immediately joy spread across his face upon hearing that he hadn’t lost his jacket, he was so happy that he hugged me. He didn’t tell me which branch of the military he was in, but guessing from the insignia on his jacket I surmised that he was in the US Army.
The Documents Librarian told me that serving in Vietnam was the best and worst time in his life. The best times because he was close to the members in his squadron, the worst times because more than half of them died in Vietnam. The jacket was indispensable to him because it was the only thing he had left to remind him of his friends. I felt about two inches tall, but I learned a particularly valuable lesson; don’t treat other people’s feelings and possessions as if they’re playthings. From that point on, I stopped playing practica
l jokes because it’s never funny to the person being played. .
Okay that wasn’t the last practical joke I played. When I worked for the bank, our division had a talent show and this guy who thought he was a chocolate wonder sang one of his own songs and grossed everybody out. I played a horrible joke on my friend Sherry; I called her on the phone and told her I saw Mr. Chocolate in the lobby and that he was looking for her, and I told him what floor she worked on. I didn’t leave her hanging for long, I called her back in five minutes to tell her it was a joke, and I could hear the relief in her voice. I’m glad her thankfulness of being off Mr. Chocolate’s radar was more crucial than paying me back.
Presidency Microcosm
It is laughable when people get on their high horse and dictate how the President of the United State is failing to meet their significant expectations. I used to feel that way until I experienced a singularly memorable lesson.
Years ago, I was the first Black President of the Great Plains Contingency Planners (GPCP) group right here in Omaha. I was extremely idealistic about what changes had to take place for the success of the organization. My opponent for the presidency was appalled by my audacity to run for a position for which I clearly had no experience. Could you imagine his dismay when I garnered 72% of the voting body?
Out Of Darkness Page 8
